Bumperstickers

I don’t go for cause bumperstickers.
There’s only one on my car, which I rarely drive, and it’s a clearish Debauche sticker.
Right side of the rear bumper.
Nobody will get the joke, and I don’t care if they do.
You see those cars out there, plastered with stickers, and they look like crap.
As if the bumpsterstickers are holding the damn thing together.
I’d rather not be a lending library or road hazard with all that writing.
Provide your own damn entertainment.
The only thing I care about people driving behind me is that they use their brakes right.

An apple a day

In school, there was always that one kid who’d bring the teacher apples.
That kid was me.
“Thank you,” the teacher would say. And she’d eat the apple. “Delicious.”
I was a smart kid, and I got good grades on my own.
But I’m sure the apples helped.
Until one day I got a bad grade for something.
That’s when I mentioned that the first apple had poison in it.
“And the other apples have a temporary antidote.”
From then on, I got good grades.
And the teacher got the full antidote on the last day of class.
I think.

Weekly Challenge #932 – Across

The next topic is You’ll never believe

LISA

He brought us today’s newspaper! Finding out that it’s March makes my tummy lurch. It feels odd reading and finding out that life has just gone on without us. But, it seems it has. I’m almost disappointed that we’re not spoken about on every page.

There’s actually nothing about any of us.

The headlines are full of a missing boy. A boy: from across the river. I scour the article, the police cogs in my brain whirring, it makes three missing lads in the last month. It’s weirdly as if it’s written about us but they’re boys that have disappeared.

RICHARD

Never a cross word

I don’t know why I bother with the crossword, I rarely manage to complete it.

I had a vague idea it might keep my brain active, perhaps prevent the onset of future senility, but I have my doubts.

This morning’s effort wasn’t going well.

Nine across: seven letters, B, something, something, F, something, L, something, D; ‘Perplexed, the flow is obstructed’. What sort of a rubbish clue was that?

Perhaps dementia was already setting in?

Taking a slurp of coffee didn’t make things any clearer, and I put my pen down, defeated.

Yes, I’ve given up once again. Completely… Baffled.

LIZZIE

She sat down in the cabine across the aisle from me. She didn’t smile when I smiled. She looked down, her hands on her lap. It was pouring. I always worried about everything. In my mind, she worried too. So, I wanted to go over to her. A hug. Or perhaps I could hold her hand. As her husband-to-be, I heard someone say, closed the door, she took a quick glimpse at me and waved a shy wave. We never talked, but every year we would make the same trip. And I would wait a whole year for that wave.

SERENDIPIDY

How do I get the seriousness of your situation across to you?

All I’m asking you to do is confess your sins and recant your faith – just say the words – not exactly difficult, is it?

I simply need to hear you say it, and then you can go free. No need for any more torture, pain or tears. I can make it all go away, but first I need to hear you say it.

My impatience grows. Your refusal to speak is becoming irritating.

Although, coming to think of it, maybe I should have waited before cutting out your tongue?

NORVAL JOE

Billbert grabbed the rifle from the man’s fingertips and stepped back as the helicopter flew across the treetops and dropped down into the meadow by Sabrina. Swat team members spilled from the open doors.
A loudspeaker squelched. “Put the rifle down and put your hands in the air.”
Knowing that if he’d been Black, Billbert would already be dead, he threw the rifle to the ground.
The van driver ran for the trees and Billbert lowered a hand to point at him. “That’s the guy…”
The loudspeaker cut him off. “Put your hands in the air or we will shoot.”

TOM

It seemed like a good idea at the time

It took either an amazing amount of courage or galactic stupidity. Neither of these terms were available to Pa-Pi. He only had about 300 words in his head, half were getting food, food itself, what animals want him for food. When he put the lashed timber together and dropped it in the water, the locals laughed there asses off. Ass was pretty very useful for collective humor. They hadn’t really invented joke yet. Mostly rocks and fire. It was a rough ride across the water, but he made it. Pa-pi was the first human to leave Africa. The other followed.

849

She could me Boo

Jack entered fatherhood late, but with full on commitment. He even did messy dippers. When toys were purchased, they had been researched for maximum educations value. He also had clear idea of paternal names he truly dislike. Pops was an athame. Daddy was so prosaic. Father so formal. Dad so 1950s. Jack want to be Pa-Pa. A medieval patrona. He wanted a family that would fit in comfortability int a production of Fiddler on the Roof. He saw to himself as the paterfamilias. Of course, the girl, as children will disregarded his wishes. Somehow an early game of peek-a-boo took.

PLANET Z

Bobby started the Neuralink, and his bedroom turned into the classroom.
Bobby liked to log in early, because the good teachers filled up quickly.
Sure, teachers all looked the same, but the people driving the avatars varied.
The state kept offshoring more and more teachers, so you could end up with some Bangladesh contracto driving a thousand pupils and reading from a script, the translation engine spewing gibberish.
Even the AI were better than those geeks.
But Brooks was the best, so Bobby logged in early, took his seat, and went to the bathroom.
And forgot to pause the link.

CHATGPT

In tiny Woodbury, an oddly massive hospital looms, void of doctors, nurses, and beds. Locals, curious, venture to Mainhaven for medical care. Woodbury’s relic is boarded-up, with a forbidden basement that lures adventurous kids. They unearth eerie, rusted tools reminiscent of horror films. Legend whispers that a century ago, the colossal structure was the state asylum, harboring bizarre events. Patients, lost in time, vanished mysteriously. Rumor suggests one transformed into the town’s mayor, proving unexpectedly adept. In the shadows of Woodbury’s past, whispers of a sinister era persist, casting an ominous veil over the unsuspecting town.

Important day

Today is an important day.
I wrote IMPORTANT on the calendar.
But I don’t remember why it is important.
I looked through my mail and my notes, but there’s nothing telling me what’s so important today.
I haven’t gotten any phone calls or emails or other messages about today.
I’ve asked everybody I know, but they have nothing… they need nothing from me, so it’s not something important I have to do for them.
So, I’ll just stop worrying and go through my day.
And if anything comes up tomorrow, or someone asks, I’ll know what was so damn important.

100 pegs

One hundred pegs along the wall of the cliffside monastery.
A brown robe hanging from each.
The monks had hung their robes on the pegs, filed out of the dormitory, and out the front gate.
Lining up at the edge of the cliff, one by one, the naked men leapt to their deaths.
Later that evening, one hundred naked men arrived at the gate.
They walked into the dormitory, picked out a robe, and put it on.
The new monks of the monastery.
Saying prayers together, praising their creator.
Until it was time for them to leap from the cliff.

Sarah doesn’t have

Sarah doesn’t have nightmares.
She doesn’t need them.
She just remembers everything bad that’s ever happened to her.
And that’s a lot of bad things. Horrible things. Terrifying things.
When she wakes up, she writes down all the memories.
After a cup of coffee and a bowl of yogurt, she looks over her notes, and begins to write.
At the end of the day, she sends her writing to her editor.
Dinner, walking in the evening light, a shower, and off to bed.
For more memories to harvest.
And turn into novels
To give so many readers their own nightmares.

Campaign season

As November rolls around again, it’s the return of campaign season.
The ads and social networks are a cesspool of delusion and madness.
I can avoid them as best I can.
But my phone?
BING! BING! BING!
You’re not campaign volunteers. You’re goddamned parasites.
I turned off text alerts and vibration last week.
When do I look at my phone, I Report Junk on every campaign text.
And then go back to what I was doing.
I’ll turn it back on when this year’s shitshow ends, the credits roll, and the pundits throw shit at each other during the post-credits scene.

The fourth of July

Every year, Nathan’s Famous sets up the tables and chairs for the contestants.
Trays of hot dogs and buns, and pitchers of water.
The crowd gathers, the contestants take their seats, and the judges set out the trays.
The crowd counts down from ten… nine… eight…
When they get to zero, the contestants peel out the hot dogs, swallow them, then dunk the buns in the pitchers and swallow the buns.
The judges keep tally… ten… twenty… thirty…
Some contestants stop… others vomit… but a few keep going.
The crowd counts down to zero, and the judges tally the winner.

The crawl of fame

The walk of fame is just a bunch of names on plaques in a sleazy part of Los Angeles.
Weirdos in costumes harass the tourists, and pickpockets steal whatever they can get their hands on.
Or you get mugged and robbed and you’re crawling on the ground asking for help.
It’s the walk of fame, not the crawl of fame, loser.
Show some dignity. Get the fuck up.
This is Hollywood, dammit.
And stop bleeding on Charleton Heston.
Well, his star… not the actual man.
I can take your picture with it for five bucks.
Just hand me your phone…

Weekly Challenge #931 PICK TWO Free gift, Long live The King, Hit, Scribble, France, Waterfall

The next topic is Across

LISA

It feels like weeks since we’ve seen ‘no 1’ and It hits me that we don’t know the date. I wonder if we’d get one if we asked for a newspaper.

There’s not much to do–most of us are writing something now mostly just scribbled thoughts. We laugh playing with the free gift on the breakfast cereal. Laughter always makes us sad afterwards. The basement becomes quieter and more subdued. It’s odd isn’t it?

It prompts us to think about another explore. We’ve not wanted to since number 2 arrived but we plan and it lifts the mood again.

LIZZIE

It’s almost half past four. I pick up the book, a gift from a stranger in the park. “It’s about France,” he said with a smile. It hit me then that if I don’t leave, she will destroy me. “Why do you hate me so much?” She asked. I don’t. I never have. Wrong answer. And after that, she punished me for weeks with silence. I grab my small backpack, my whole life in it, and go. A gift, a smile, a gesture of generosity, and I am free. That’s all it took. Amazing, isn’t it? That’s all it took.

RICHARD

Free, or captive?

I’m a sucker for a free gift, doesn’t matter what it is, what it’s worth, or whatever it is I have to purchase or sign up for to get it, count me in.

Supermarket trips can be a nightmare, hit me with an aisle full of ‘buy one, get one free’, and I’ll be there all day, until the money runs out.

That’s becoming a real problem, actually. My habit has put me on the brink of bankruptcy, and even though every room in my house is stuffed full of freebies, there’s not an item of real value among them.

SERENDIPIDY

Long live the king, they shout and cheer. It sickens me, but let them have their moment, for it will soon be over and the streets will run with monarchist blood.

Tonight, the revolution begins, and we who have vowed to see a new future will rise up and claim France for its people.

No more will the aristocracy lord it over us, while we suffer and toil; no more will the working class support those who have never lifted a finger in honest labour.

Long live the king? I very much doubt it.

Vive la révolution!

Vive la France!

TOM

Faith
There is a waterfall in France call Labulaydelusane. As waterfall go it isn’t that high, or wide or watery crashy. What it has is a grotto of uncommon beauty. It gives the sanctuary of Lourdes Massabielle, a run for the money. A clever family in the 16th century place a pile of crutches against the wall. Over time folk have left 1000s of crutches on wall. The family got pretty damn rich hawking the healing water of Labulaydelusane. Everyone who left their crutches there need to roll away in a wheelchair. But still they come. Until the day Timmy arrived

848

Cross country.

cross country racing strategy does not necessarily simplify to running a steady pace from start to finish. runners debate the relative merits of fast starts to get clear of the field, versus steady pacing to maximize physiological efficiency. Some teams emphasize running in a group in order to provide encouragement, while others hold that every individual should run their own race. Whether you run ahead ‘of the pack’ or behind it and pull ahead in the end is important, but can vary according to the runner’s skill and endurance. Runners should also account for food intake prior to the race.

NORVAL JOE

Billbert hovered above the car crash. It was like a free gift from fate that the shooter had been dazed when he hit the ground.
He recognized the Lincoln Continental that had smashed into the van as Mr. Withybottom’s.
Three teenage Black Knights stumbled from the van. There was no movement from Mr. Withybottom.
As the residents crept into the meadow, Billbert heard distant sirens and a helicopter approaching.
The teens heard it too and scattered into the trees.
The shooter had come around and crawled to get his rifle. Billbert couldn’t allow that and flew fast to intercept him.

PLANET Z

Some say that the Iditarod is the toughest race, but having a team of dogs pull your sled through snow for a thousand miles is nothing compared to a fourth-grader having to drag a cello eight blocks from home to music school and back through Harlem at night.
That’s why we set up the Midnight Youth Orchestra in one of the basketball courts.
The kids come out and play, and the dealers stop dealing, the hookers stop hooking, and the junkies stop junking.
Everybody forgets where they are and who they are.
Until Old Mrs. Washington files a noise complaint.

CHATGPT

In the heart of France, a waterfall whispered secrets to the passing winds. Amidst its mist, a traveler stumbled upon a scribbled note—a plea for freedom, a gift from a silenced voice. Unraveling its message, the traveler uncovered a plot against the king, a hit orchestrated by dissenters. Determined to protect the monarchy, the traveler raced to the castle, delivering the warning. The king’s reign was safeguarded, his gratitude overflowing like the cascade before him. Long live the king echoed through the land, a testament to the power of loyalty and the resilience of a nation united.